A Tale of Two Knights
by bellarmee
Summary: Some of my random thoughts while watching the Brienne/Jaime relationship unfold in the latest season. Update: after the latest episode, this is an alternate ending too. One which, in my humble opinion, keeps to character arcs more faithfully than D&D's.
1. Ch1 The Feast

_Disclaimer: My last fic was a long LONG time ago and I only want to write a quick one to pen down my imagined interactions between my favorite pair (YES!) before they sail off into some horrendous ending in the coming episodes. I've shipped Brienne/Jaime for so so long it's painful. When they parted all those seasons ago, I never expected them to meet again. And even earlier this season, I didn't expect them to REALLY get together. When I watched the latest ep I was literally screaming because yes YES of course they have romantic feelings for each other, of COURSE, it's all so right and how could I have not believed it? Before I got my heart broken literally forty minutes later. So here goes._

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Jaime Lannister is a simple man. He may have gotten something of a reputation because he's quick on his feet, he acts before he thinks and he follows his guts most of the time. But mostly because he's part of the package - you know, the trio, the Lannister deal. Sometimes he thinks he can pass for being quite unremarkable if he has not grown up with a pair of such grotesquely extraordinary siblings.

Such is a night when Jaime feels himself simple again. A week ago they have just survived the worst battle Winterfell has ever seen and attained a frankly unthinkable victory. Now, candlelights are dancing off silverware, plenty of food, merriment and alcohol are passing around, and the great hall is echoing with shouts of laughter. It is the great feast. Jaime sits opposite his commanding officer, Ser Brienne of Tarth, and her squire, Podrick, and thinks life to be quite lovely and simple.

A couple of rounds of drinks later Jaime find Tyrion squeezing into the seat next to him and announcing a drinking game. To Jaime's best knowledge, Tyrion has been plying himself generously with wine since four hours before the feast, so it is really quite remarkable that he is still coherent. "A guessing game," he says with the seriousness typical of the drunk. "We go in turns and guess a fact that we don't already know about another person. If you guess wrong, you drink. If you guess right, the other person drinks."

Jaime glances at Brienne. She has a look of incredulity mixed with amusement. He thinks she'll enjoy it. "Let's do it," Jaime shrugs.

"Alright. You go first," says Tyrion.

Jaime stares hard at Brienne. It's really impossible for him to guess anything about Tyrion since they practically know each other inside out. Flints of candlelight dance off her blue eyes, a dark sapphire in the low light, and he thinks absently that she looks quite lovely. But then again, he's never found her ugly in the least - the way others described her.

"You're an only child," announces Jaime, thinking back to when they first met each other, on the long winding country road, when he tried to strike up a conversation.

"I told you that!" exclaims Brienne. "Nope, I surmised," retorts Jaime. It's not technically incorrect. Although he did end up rambling for hours about his own siblings, and Brienne having said nothing of the same sort in return basically implies the answer. So that was an easy one.

"You get another turn," declares Tyrion. Brienne starts to protest but Tyrion shouts her down. At this point they're both more than a little gone, Jaime thinks to himself. But then again, so is he. He feels his mind being wrapped in a pleasant warm fog. Still thinking crystal clear, of course. A Lannister - and all Lannisters grow up drinking - never loses himself with alcohol. But he's feeling more relaxed than usual.

Jaime thinks about what he thinks about Brienne. There's something that bothers him; a rumor that tugs at him deep down, from a long time ago. _Renly Baratheon_. The name comes to Jaime's mind instantly. Brienne's former love, and probably her first. Jaime never thought much of Renly. A weasel of a man, he thinks, soft and frivolous. Brienne deserves much better. His only redeeming characteristic was his apparent kindness to Brienne.

Jaime opens his mouth, "You danced with Renly Baratheon."

Brienne glares at Podrick who shakes his head quickly, evading blame. Silly woman, thinks Jaime as he watches her drink. Does she think he will not try to find out more about her, that he'll not think about and remember her every little fact and detail?

The game goes on. At some point Jaime realizes that he knows both Tyrion and Brienne too well for the game to be fun for him. He much prefers watching. Brienne has a way of laughing, wide-mouthed, that shows the completeness of her mirth. It fills his heart to see her so happy. She's so often burdened with so much care, that her face tends to set in grim lines, her countenance stern. Jaime considers telling her that she should smile more.

The game has taken on more serious turns. Brienne guesses that Tyrion has married before Sansa. Tyrion drinks with a grimace; Jaime knows Tyrion's first marriage is an old scar that still hurts. Tyrion fixes his large, inquiring eyes on Brienne and the brief silence before he launches his attack should have alerted Jaime to what is coming, if he hasn't been so preoccupied with watching Brienne laugh and feeling happy.

"You're a virgin."

Jaime turns in shock as Brienne's smile freezes on her face. "That's a statement about the present," Jaime says out of reflex. All Lannisters have a quick tongue, Tyrion's the quickest of them all. "You've never been with a man, or a woman, at any point in the past up till now."

Despite the embarrassment, no, mortification that Jaime knows Brienne must feel, if the answer is what he thinks he knows, he can't stop himself from fixing his gaze on Brienne as well. After all, does he know what he thinks he knows? And what if something changed after these recent years? What if ...

As if on cue, a very much drunk Tormund Giantsbane swaggers to their table, blocking Brienne, who is about to retreat. Jaime can't help but notice that she didn't drink. _She didn't drink_. What if ...

Tormund is shouting something about pissing contests and fucking giants. Jaime didn't hear. He notices Brienne dodges deftly past Tormund, and hurries into the shadows. Tormund makes as if to follow her.

Jaime leaps up before he realizes it, blocks Tormund in a visible show of one-uppance, and walks just as hurriedly after Brienne, leaving behind a very amused Tyrion. He just wants to make sure she's okay, he tells himself. He wants to apologize for how rude Tyrion has been. By the time he has come up with all these reasons, he's already out of the great hall.

After all, Jaime Lannister tends to act before he thinks.


	2. Ch2 The Flame

Drinks and merriment are good and all, but once Brienne gets back to her own room, it doesn't take much for her to convince herself that all she wants to do is sleep.

She absentmindedly adds another log to the fireplace. She's not been necessarily _bothered_ by Tyrion's question; after all, the people present literally were just: herself, Podrick for fuck's sake, Tyrion who, she's sure, was sure of the answer, and _him_. And she's sure that he knows it too. It's not like they haven't had conversations about her unattractiveness, and even if she hasn't mentioned it explicitly, she's sure rumors spread and Jaime Lannister has ears. No, the question does not matter; still, it stings a little to be reminded of her own unattractiveness, when they have just won a victory, when they are supposed to be celebrating, when the way he gazes at her across the table makes her forget that she's ugly, just for a little while.

Brienne shrugs the annoyance off, like she shrugs off most little grievances and sorrows. Life is too short to keep thinking about what others think of you, she's learnt from a young age; and what's more, she has other things to keep her mind on. From pledging her services to Renly, to swearing an oath to Catelyn Stark, to her quests up and down Westeros to find the Stark girls, to protecting Sansa Stark and now her role as a commander of part of Winterfell's guard, Brienne is a sufficiently busy woman. No, it's been a long day; time to get a good rest.

Brienne hangs her sword, the Oathkeeper, near her bed, where she always keeps it, before changing into her nightsclothes. The Oathkeeper is heavy and feels good on the arm. It's no exaggeration to say that's one of Brienne's most treasured possessions. Brienne spends one second too long staring at the Oathkeeper and his voice comes back to her: _It's yours. It'll always be yours _...

She shakes herself. Jaime Lannister is a mild annoyance in her life that she tries to shake off. Sure, she treasures him as a friend, a good fighter, sparring partner, not to mention the savior of her life several times over and an honorable man. But sometimes, especially recently, he seems to lean in too close, gazes at her a little too much, and has this look on his face that Brienne can reasonably really only describe as a "puppy look". A look that sometimes makes Brienne do a second take and have a fleeting impression that _Jaime Lannister_, arguably the most handsome man in Westeros and likely the most emotionally unavailable (sister and all), could be somewhat attached to her. And that is a dangerous thought.

Brienne shakes her head again. _He's always been misleading_, she thinks. She never knows where they're truly at. It seems like Jaime is always trying to bare his soul to her, whereupon she always tries to take the broken pieces and put them back together. But nothing could, Brienne says to herself firmly, destroy their friendship. It is the trust in one another that makes him serve under her command, the same trust that sees them fight alongside each other, believing they have each other's backs. The same trust with which Jaime knighted her, making her the first woman knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms - making her wish come true.

Three sharp taps on the wooden doors, and then two; whoever it is sounds impatient. Brienne opens the door in a swoop and there stands Jaime himself, looking like a - goddammit - a puppy again, staring into her eyes for three straight seconds, before clearing his throat and inviting himself in.

"And what are you doing ...?" Brienne asks. Jaime sets down what he's been cradling in his golden hand; a decanter of liquor and two glasses. "You didn't drink," he says, as if that explains everything. "What ..." "You didn't _drink_." Jaime insists. "That was the game; if he guesses right, you drink."

Brienne stares at Jaime. _Ser_ Jaime definitely seems a little off tonight. She takes a cup of the - apparently Dornish - liquid cautiously, and sips it all the while carefully gauging how drunk he is. On the one hand, he's standing easily and speaks without a slur. On the other hand, _he is in her room_. And looking very uncomfortable.

All this does not make sense.

Jaime mumbles something about it being hot and sets off to take off his outer clothes. Brienne, half-amused and half-bewildered, considers simultaneously to throw him out or to help him take off his coat.

He returns to the fireside and pours out more liquor. "I don't want anything growing on me," he's saying now. Brienne observes him; his hand is steady. But somehow his voice trembles a little. "And you? Has anyone _grown_ on you?" A pause. "What about that ... Tormund Giantsbane?"

This conversation is taking off in a wildly unexpected direction. First Jaime seems to be unexpectedly concerned with either her state of virginity or sobriety, and she's not sure which anymore. And second, any dim suspicion she had that Jaime has come here to discuss sword-fighting, or his strategies on the coming war, or even his relationship with his sister, has disappeared.

She almost whispers. "You sound ... quite jealous." The moment the words came out of her mouth, they both realize they're true. And they both realize the moment each other realize. "I suppose I do," Jaime says, almost bitterly. And drinks again.

It's quite magical. The way they always catches on to each other.

Brienne continues to observe Jaime. She's more than a little dazed at this point. Her heart starts thumping, picking up speed. It is beginning to dawn on her what he might mean; she's not sure if she dares to believe.

If she dares admit it to herself, she'll realize that Jaime has always been a little more than a friend. No, in fact, more like, the man of her dreams - the dreams she did not even know she had. He's funny and witty and charming and beautiful and fights well and is honorable and when the sunlight reflects off his hair in late afternoon, it's as if he's wearing a crown of gold - and he's no way in hell in love with her.

In the same daze, Brienne sees Jaime struggling to take off his clothes. Surely the man is more drunk than he lets on - surely he can't have _that_ much difficulty with a simple knot. She loses her patience finally and brushes him aside. He was surprised - their eyes meet for a brief, long second and there's something she can't read - does it actually look like hope? Before the moment of respite is over, Jaime Lannister's one good hand reaches up and tries to undo her clothes.

"What are you doing?" She whispers. "Taking off your clothes," says Jaime, equally in a whisper, in what must be, as she thought confusedly, the most brazen and useless response ever. In any other circumstance she would have called him out for his tongue-in-cheek, but somehow, here, it seems more appropriate for her to look into his eyes.

The firelight glints off his green irises; it's as if their depths contain some small flame. It is this flame that convinces Brienne to slowly undo her own clothes, and peel them off. It is this small flame that convinces her fuck it all, to forget, for one night, that she is huge and unattractive and monstrous, to forget the possibility that Jaime is just drunk and they would both regret this tomorrow, to forget about honor and self-control. Because there are flames in his eyes, and they flicker.

"I've never slept with a knight before," Jaime says.

"I've never slept with anyone before."

Something seems to click inside Jaime; an "aha" moment, a recognition of "I knew it". "You have to drink," he says.

Before she can mutter anything in response, he leans in and engulfs her in an eager, passionate kiss.

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_This seems to be taking a bit longer than I envisioned! Sorry there's no new material yet. I'll probably skip some of the sadder scenes because I don't want to revisit them. Still. Hopefully I get more out before we know where the plot goes next!_


	3. Ch3 The Twin

Jaime is wide awake and completely sober. Well, to be fair, he's been entirely sober the past night. If ever he seemed tipsy, it was either a guise, or because he was mesmerized by a certain someone. And now, d_runk with happiness, as they say, _Jaime thinks, smiling a little to himself. He glances next to him; Brienne is fast asleep under thick layers of wolfskin, snoring a little. Even her _snores_ are so adorable.

If he could choose again, he would have done it, a thousand times over. Jaime's only regret is that he hasn't realized sooner just how much he _desires_ her. Sure, he's known for a long time that he wholeheartedly respects Brienne, wants to live up to her, and for a while now, he would have traded his own life for hers without hesitation. That's just how _good_ a person Brienne of Tarth is; that Jaime wants to keep her in this world more than himself. But he hasn't considered how much he loves her, or really, how much he's in love with her, until Winterfell.

Or rather, until the mammoth and inane figure of Tormund Giantsbane salivating after Brienne threw him into such fits of disgust, anger, and irritation that Jaime was forced to reconsider his own heart. Or, in fact, when Podrick occupies Brienne's attention for a minute too long with whatever he messed up again. Or when Tyrion amuses Brienne too much. And, really, does Sansa Stark _have to_ take Brienne for such long walks every evening?

Jaime has been forced to admit to himself that he wants her attention all the time, or at least a majority of her waking hours; he wants her think of him when he's not around, and talk to him when he is; for he always wants to be around her, misses her when she's gone, and has developed an unfortunate tendency to follow her around like a lost puppy. In short, he's in love.

And to find that Brienne accepts him, opens up to him, and maybe, potentially, even just a little, loves him, is beyond his wildest dreams.

Jaime smiles a little at the memory of Brienne's skin on his, them moving in unison. And his thoughts drift involuntarily to Cersei. It's impossible for him to _not_ think of Cersei; after all, she's all he's ever had for a good thirty-something years. Jaime thinks of how Cersei and Brienne are complete opposites. Cersei is frail and small, and almost always intoxicated, where Brienne is strong and smells of sunlight. Being with Cersei has always brought out the worst of him, and that has been precisely what makes it pleasurable, that it was so easy and so sinful; Brienne makes him want to be the best version of himself. Where Brienne is the most honorable woman he's ever met, Cersei is probably the most unscrupulous, the most toxic, in short, the worst.

But Cersei hasn't always been this way. Jaime thinks back to their teenaged years again, those early days when he realized his twin was someone beyond special to him. He remembers the frail girl, vulnerable but stubborn and proud, jealous of him for how effortlessly he can win Tywin's affection, harboring a dark anger towards Tyrion for killing their mother. He remembers how, for as long as he can remember, they have always been two sides of the same coin. While she is outwardly resentful, and cynic and a skeptic, he was roundly popular and celebrated as the golden lion. Yet they have been the same, at core. And it's been so easy for him to be drawn to someone that dark but that similar to himself. It's so easy to take pity on her, and love her.

But then, eventually, her darkness has eroded her even on the inside, and vicious tentacles grasped at him as well. Him being the stupidest Lannister, as Tyrion always says, it took him a long time to realize he's been manipulated, controlled, and used. When he's finally been shown light, it's like something woke up inside him. It's not his fault that he had to try his best to reach for this light, to detach himself from Cersei, and live in light forever.

Where has she gone wrong? Jaime wonders languidly. He thinks about how life is but a series of choices, and somewhere down the road, his path and Cersei's have diverged forever. She's chosen to spoil Joffrey, be drawn into bitter politics of the realm, and burn down the Sept of Baelor; while he, well, he met Brienne.

Jaime glances at Brienne again. In every way, Brienne has been his savior. She breathes new life into him. If not for Brienne ...

He shudders a little and closes his eyes, trying to shut down his thoughts. He knows he is the same as Cersei deep down, inside. He just _knows_.

The Northernmen and Daenerys' army are setting off in a week; Jaime has more or less made up his mind not to join them. He has zero desire to be within the vicinity of Cersei's influence again, and he knows Daenerys does not trust him enough to let him contribute in any meaningful way. He wishes fervently that Tyrion would be able to keep his wits about him and outsmart Cersei, that Daenerys' dragons will be enough to take her down. Because if not, Jaime is keenly aware that - he may be the only one who can.

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_As always, I have to apologize for the lack of new plot - while I have some thoughts on what might happen, the next episode is so soon that for the continuity of this story, I might just wait for what the HBO writers have come up with, and develop from there. Thank you for your patience!_


	4. Ch4 The Queen

_As you know, 8x05 didn't give me exactly a lot of material of work from. There were many things over which I disagreed with the episode: the characterizations of Daenerys, Grey Worm, Jon, Tyrion and Varys; the futility of the Clegane-bowl; how Arya did not die with every other person and rode off on a white horse; etc. But as someone deeply invested in Jaime/Brienne, you would know I disagree the most strongly with Jaime's characterization, the fact that he teleported himself in like two days from a happy ending in Winterfell to do nothing else except literally die at his sister's side in King's Landing, throwing away seven seasons of character growth, throwing away all that he's ever done, and returning to being the Jaime literally of 1x01. _

_The only bright side is that the writing for 8x05 was so atrocious I can completely delete it from my mind and build my own. Since I don't care much about the other characters, I will largely leave the plotting of D&D and concoct an alternate ending just changing the actions of Jaime. Enjoy._

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Jaime, hooded and gloved, approaches King's Landing with apprehension. Even with hard riding and taking some easier routes over water, it still took him over two weeks to arrive. Over two weeks since that cold, quiet dawn when he got up, restless from insomnia, and saddled a horse in a deadly determination to get to King's Landing. To see Cersei one last time. Over two weeks since Brienne followed him out silently - of course she would be able to hear and predict his every move - took his face into her hands, her warrior's face crumpling for the first time he knew, and begged him to stay.

Jaime winces a little inside at the memory. He can still feel every little bit of Brienne's hurt; in breaking her heart, he broke his own. _I'm not worthy for you to cry over_, he wanted to shout back at the Brienne in his memory. _You must remain strong. And brave. And unbroken_. But he knows what's done has been done and because of him, Brienne would never be the same. Another filthy mark he left in this world, before he leaves it for good - and whenever that's to happen, Jaime is sure it will be soon.

Daenerys' forces have been waiting for the bulk of their army, which took the land route, to arrive; they did so only a couple of days before Jaime. In the meantime, she has blockaded the city and laid it to material siege, strictly inspecting all who go in and out of King's Landing. As Jaime approaches the guard on horseback, he lifts his hood. "I'm Jaime Lannister," he announces, "brother of Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's Hand. I just came from Winterfell with an urgent message from the North. Please allow me to see my brother."

The guards bring him to a tent for him to wait, without hostility. After all, they have just fought in the great war against the dead together less than a month ago. Whatever the Dragon Queen thinks of him, Daenerys' men mostly know the blond, one-handed knight as a war hero, someone who fought valiantly and survived, as one of them. If he's not been greeted with salutes, he's at least always been treated with courtesy.

It's not past a quarter of an hour before Tyrion hurries in. "Jaime!" he exclaims, hugging his brother tightly. "What brings you here?"

Jaime glances at the men surrounding them. Tyrion, understanding at once, waves them out of the tent. Then Jaime lowers his head towards his brother and asks quietly, "How goes the Dragon Queen? I heard you've not been doing so well."

Tyrion's face, which Jaime has noticed is more lined with worry than usual, becomes grim and set. Even though he's the youngest of them all, Jaime thinks to himself, the past year of plotting, worry and responsibilities have aged Tyrion by ten years. And to think that he used to be the most frivolous and useless Lannister! How the tables turned.

"Not well," Tyrion confides. "The loss of Rhaegal and Missandei have affected her more than I like. It seems our queen is not ... accustomed to taking war casualties." _And, what's more, she knows her claim to the throne is not as legitimate as Jon Snow's. _Tyrion thinks, frowning even deeper, but does not bring this up with his brother. "I'm very afraid ... she'll be driven to drastic action. I have been trying to advise against it, but she is trusting me less."

Jaime sighs. "I've heard our dear sister has taken civilians into the Red Keep, to protect them, as she says. If Daenerys is not keeping her cool, I'm afraid this war may shed even more innocent blood than all the past wars combined."

"That is exactly my concern." Tyrion raises an eyebrow. "Is that what brings you all the way from Winterfell, from the warmth of your hearth?" He sniggers and narrowly dodges a smack from his brother. "Forgive me, Jaime, but I never expected you to care much about ... well, anyone that you didn't care about. Or are you back to save our sister from her coming demise?"

"Are you sure she may not win the war yet? She's got one of your dragons. Another one down and you're done for." Jaime casually sidesteps Tyrion's real question. Tyrion shakes his head. "Rhaegal was injured to begin with, and Daenerys didn't see it coming. She'll be much more careful in future. Besides, Drogon has always been her best fighter of the three."

Jaime smiles a sad little smile, one Tyrion cannot read for sure. Urgency creeps into his voice as he leans into his brother's ear. "Jaime. I don't know if you're on the side of our queen or our sister. I know you love her. Or, at least, loved her. If you want to see Cersei again, do this for me. Please. Sneak into King's Landing; I'll help you. Talk to her. Convince her that she has to run if she wants to live. She will not win this war. Remember that corridor where we met, down in the keeps where they keep the dragon bones? Keep going down and you will come out onto the beach. I'll get Ser Davos to prepare you a dinghy; he's the best smuggler around and he owes me a favor. Sail away with Cersei to Pentos, start a new life and never return. And tell them to ring the bells for surrender. Please," says Tyrion, pleading all he can with his large eyes. "This may be the only way to save millions of innocent lives."

"She won't listen to me," objects Jaime. "Also, did you forget? She wants us both dead by Bronn of Blackwater. Not just you; she hates me too, now."

"She has your child," says Tyrion. He's starting to use the age-old argument that he and Jaime have both agreed not too long ago that doesn't really work - appealing to Cersei's maternal instincts. Jaime begins to realize how desperate his brother is right now. What's happened in the past few weeks within Daenerys' camp? How long since Tyrion has last slept? "She may yet want to live. For the sake of your child. Please, Jaime. Think of all the innocent people."

Jaime looks into Tyrion's eyes and replies steadily. "I will do it. For the people." He takes a deep breath. "Cersei ... there is no place left in her in Westeros. I understand. She needs to go."

"Thank you, my brother," Tyrion looks like he is on the verge of tears.

"And, Tyrion?" says Jaime. He lowers his voice even more. "If this is how you feel about your 'queen' - if you're sure Daenerys _must_ do this - that she _must_ massacre millions of people to get to that damn seat - consider this little piece of advice from your beloved brother." He pauses. "_Fuck loyalty_."

Tyrion closes his eyes. "You know that is treason." His voice trembles a little. "Varys has been executed last night for nothing less. By dragon fire." He receives Jaime's look of horror with calmness. "My dear brother. Let us not speak of this again."

They hug tightly, each realizing this may be the last they will see of each other, for a long long time. "You're the reason I survived my childhood," says Tyrion, fighting back tears. "You're a good man, Jaime Lannister. Perhaps the best. Keep yourself alive and we may yet see each other again."

Jaime can do nothing but pat his little brother on the back. "And you, too. Take care of yourself. Remember, if the queen starts to go crazy on you, don't hesitate. Don't look back. Just _run_." Jaime looks into Tyrion's eyes. "Promise me. This is not the end."

Tyrion straightens up. "I promise. I'll go make the preparations. You can set out at dawn tomorrow. Try to get into the Red Keep before the battle begins. I'll tell Daenerys that you've delivered your message from Lady Sansa and have set off for Casterly Rock, our ancestral home, to wait out the war. In the meantime, I'll keep you guarded with my own men."

He turns and looks at Jaime again. "This is not the end."


	5. Ch5 The Bells

Jaime weaves through the crowds of panicked King's Landing inhabitants, trying to make his way into the Red Keep. Everything has not gone as planned. While he made his way into King's Landing, on foot and disguised, at dawn, it seems Daenerys Targaryen has ignored her Hand's advice and begun attacking the moment her land forces arrived, which is to say, almost the exact same time Jaime entered King's Landing. Panic reigned and everyone tried desperately to get into the inner fortress of the Red Keep - a good choice, since at some point the lethal combination of Daenerys and Drogon (D&D, if you will) chose to burst through the gates of King's Landing from within, blowing to ashes all human and property within a half-mile radius. Jaime has barely the time to register the brilliant strategy and be relieved that he was far enough away from the gates to be killed, before the Northern army, the Dothraki and the Unsullied rushed into the city and the gates of the Red Keep closed resolutely, shutting Jaime out with everyone else.

Knowing the city as well as he does from all the past years of leading the Kingsguard, Jaime turns immediately and makes his way into the one of the allies leading off into the hill on which the Red Keep sits. To his best knowledge, there is a space somewhere among the bushes where the walls of the Red Keep can be breached, and he can make his way in. As he hurries, the city becomes hushed, and Jaime instinctively knows what it is - he's all too familiar with the silence of two armies in their standoff, before lunging at each other. Jaime spares a thought for the Lannister armies that he knows Cersei brought in from Casterly Rock to fight her war, and wonders if there's anyone left at their ancestral home to guard it. He hopes Casterly Rock has been doing alright with all of its masters missing. Nonetheless, he presses on.

To his surprise, the silence did not culminate with war cries; instead, after a good few minutes, human voices ring out. "Ring the bell!" They cry. "Ring the bell!" Jaime realizes that this is a city crying for surrender. A tense wait ensues, before whoever manning the bell tower decides to be a good man for the day. The clear chimes of surrender ring through the air. It's almost as if the air has cleared in that moment of its ashes, and the dread in everyone's mind lifts. The whole city has stared death in the face, and told it, Not Today.

Jaime smiles a little to himself. It seems that Tyrion's plan has worked and a massacre has been prevented. He can already see in his mind his careful little brother, making sure to tell every general under Daenerys that the bells are a sign of surrender, to stop fighting immediately when the city turns itself in. However, this means he has to hurry even more. Cersei, upon hearing the bells, is likely fleeing, and Daenerys and Drogon will be looking for her. He has to get to her in time.

From somewhere overhead, the rumbles of Drogon's snarls ring like thunder. Jaime knows the Dragon Queen is sitting astride, surveying her newest conquest. He hopes the Seven Kingdoms will prove satisfactory to Her Grace. _Good job_, he thinks. _You won._

That's when Jaime gets the shock of his life. Daenerys, in actual fact, has not believed that she won. The true threat is that the people of Westeros do not love her. She is a foreign lady who came swooping in on a dragon to claim the throne. Daenerys knows the stubborn folk of the Seven Kingdoms too well. Rebellion would only be bubbling under the surface; the chimes of surrender last only a day. Before long, there will be another war.

At least, these are the thoughts flashing through Jaime's mind, as he leaps and dodges dragon fire. Daenerys Targaryen has officially turned against the people of Westeros and is methodically burning the city, _King's Landing_, the proud and prosperous capital of the Seven Kingdom, with her dragon fire. The day is fast turning into a nightmare.

Jaime breaks into a sprint, hoping to outrun the burning city behind him. Dead or alive, there's something he needs to do.

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_Hi everyone! Somehow the website has not pushed this fic to the front page even though I updated yesterday, so here's a small update to correct that! The day of the battle is not over - I will be back after a small break. Thank you for your patience!_


	6. Ch6 The Hand

Cersei awaits impatiently for her maidservant to bring another bottle of fine wine. She has lost count of how many she's already had that day; over the years, she's become numb to the effects of alcohol, and few days passed which were not shrouded in the haze of intoxication. She's determined that if this be her last day, she will not see it sober. What is there to be clear-headed for? Her children all died, her brother and lover left her, she's guarded by a monster, sleeping with a pirate, and her city is burning.

Sometimes, Cersei Lannister thinks her life makes for an epic tale. It all began with the witch's prophesy, that she would have three children live and die, and be killed by her little brother. She supposes now that that is a metaphor for how her _dear_ little brother, Tyrion, is aiding in this insane war effort to wipe out King's Landing. A metaphorical hand on her throat. And then, she became Queen of the realm, as in wife of Robert Baratheon, before becoming Queen Regent on behalf of her royal children; before, finally, becoming _Queen_ herself.

Some unsavory detours taken along the way, Cersei admits. But, nothing she wouldn't do again. And after all, she's got everything she's ever wanted, and everything money could ever buy. It's barely her fault that she's destined to be defeated by _dragons_. _I mean, come on. Who the fuck expects to come up against dragons?_

Qyburn has just informed her that all of his Scorpions have been destroyed. Cersei smiles a little. She wonders if the Dragon Queen herself has ever faced wrath of the type she is unleashing onto the many souls of King's Landing. She wonders if Daenerys Targaryen realizes the full of extent of what she is doing. It is not only the Northerner's specific trait that they never forget; _the Seven Kingdoms never forget_. A Lannister always pays his debt. What is dead may never die. We do not sow. _I mean, come on,_ thinks Cersei. Daenerys is more stupid than she thought she'd be. At least now she is absolving Cersei of the role of the Mad Queen for the history books. Daenerys will soon be known as the Mad Queen who massacred King's Landing and not long after was overthrown by the people, rallying behind some leader or another, probably Jon Snow, or even Gendry Baratheon, the newly minted Lord of the Stormlands. In the meantime, she, Cersei Lannister, will go down as the Queen who died trying to protect the realm.

Cersei is okay with that. All she ever wanted really was to be known as a great woman, perhaps the greatest. And to look after her children. All her children are dead, the one remaining will die with her; but the history books remain. Cersei strokes her abdomen contemplatively. It's been a good life. She's okay with that.

She turns resolutely and suddenly, the way she's learnt to through many years in court, a gesture that always unnerves people, and quickly strides towards the back staircase of the tower where she has stood watching her city burnt down by dragon fire. It's time to make a last attempt to leave. Qyburn and the Mountain flank her on each side as she lightly descends the staircase.

The building is not holding up so well. While Daenerys, from her fast-moving vantage point, is unaware that this specifically is the tower Cersei is in, Drogon's massive tail has hit against the tower a couple of times in passing, and the impacts took their toll. The tower is barely standing and Cersei's hazy mind is telling her feet to hurry, _hurry_, when a dull, tall figure materialized from the darkness in front.

Cersei doubled back in shock. _The Hound_.

"What are you doing here?" Qyburn is the first to react. The Hound shrugs. "My business is not with you or your queen. You all may go. Leave my brother to me."

Cersei hears the Mountain, whom she's always assumed is an unknowing, unfeeling beast, a sort of medical miracle handed to her by the devious mind of Qyburn, growl. She shrinks further into the shadows. The Mountain makes as if to advance. "No," says Cersei quickly. "You have to protect me. What if Daenerys comes at me later?"

"You heard the Queen," says Qyburn. "Stand back." He moves to block the Mountain. _A bad move_, thinks Cersei. No one should physically stand in front of the Mountain. "I command you as the Hand of the Queen!"

_Smack_. The Mountain, in his rage, picks up Qyburn easily and throws him against the wall. Cersei watches his body crumple to the ground. So much for the Hand of the Queen, she thinks. _You've been a good Hand_, says Cersei silently. _I will mourn you well when this all comes to pass._

As the Mountain lunges at his younger brother, fighting out some age-old feud between Clegane siblings which Cersei has never bothered to find out more of, she hurries away, towards the safety of the keeps.

There it is, the Map Room. Cersei crosses it quickly without hesitation. This is where she has stood and told Jaime that the world would be theirs, it will always be theirs and their child's. That nothing in the world matters except for the two of them and their children. She has told Jaime all this and more, but the ungrateful man, her _other_ little brother, as it so happens, has abandoned her anyway, to fight for all those Northerners. And sleeping with that _cow_ too, Cersei thinks viciously. In all their time together, Jaime has never been attracted by any other woman, because she's always been the most beautiful in the room. She supposes the enjoyment of too much beauty has driven Jaime to seek the other extreme.

No, she's angry at Jaime not so much because of who he lets in his bed, because gods know she's slept with many other men. She's angry because there has always been a tacit agreement that they will come _first_ in each other's hearts, regardless of whom they kiss, whom they sleep with, whom they fight for. They're two sides of the same coin; they always had each other's backs. And Jaime has abandoned Cersei in her moment of greatest need, when she's fleeing for her life; meaning right now. That's why she's livid.

Except apparently he has not. Cersei stands stock still, reeling from the momentum, as the lean figure of Jaime Lannister emerges from the shadows. "My sweet sister," he says, his voice smooth and slightly mocking as ever. "I've been waiting for you."

Cersei takes a step back. "If you're here to kill me, you should do it now," she sneers. "It appears my guards are all ... preoccupied elsewhere. The downside is, though, you're probably not going to make it out alive." Somewhere above them, stones rumble and fall. Cersei knows the tower has taken another hit. She sneers again. "Jaime, I never thought you'd be this stupid. Coming back all the way to kill me. I've always known you're the stupidest Lannister."

"Let us not be bitter to each other," Jaime says, approaching her with the graceful steps of a cat. Cersei catches a glimpse of his right hand; it is covered in glove, but surely, _surely_, those are fingers with the dexterity of a real hand. She looks back into her brother's eyes again. They're the shade of green she knows and loves so well, yes. But Jaime's eyes have never widened with such glee or cunning.

"Who are you?" Cersei hisses. In a split second, before she realizes it, Jaime draws out a long, thin sword deftly with his left hand.

He grins. "You're the last person on my list, Cersei Lannister."


	7. Ch7 The Duel

Jaime turns a corner in the collapsing Red Keep and who should he come up face-to-face with but _himself_, wielding a thin sword menacingly in the direction of none other than Cersei, the woman he's been looking for, the objective of his trip for the past two weeks, the night to his day. He gasps audibly; this coincidence is a bit too much even for a seasoned fighter like Jaime. Both turn to look at him. His doppelganger speaks first.

"Well, I guess now there is truly no point in this silly guise," says Arya, ripping off a face that, upon Jaime's second look, is not exactly his; but what with clothes, wig and make-up, made to look very similar. Jaime's eyes widen. He's not sure where the Stark girl has been for the past couple of years, but clearly up to no good - this is a level of black magic civilized people in the Seven Kingdoms are seldom acquainted with.

Arya, on the other hand, stows the used face with disdain. She would have loved to use the face of Jaime Lannister himself, for good measure. A sharp jab in his side with Needle will do the trick very nicely, and the horror and dismay on Cersei Lannister's face before she dies, almost believing that she's being killed by the person who matters the most to her, would have been worth it. Unfortunately, Jaime is not exactly on Arya's list, which would otherwise not have stopped her, but they did fight together in the Battle of Winterfell, for the living, and that makes Arya hesitate. That, and the fact that Brienne, to whom both she and Sansa are indebted, is clearly taken with Jaime. In fact, Sansa warned Arya explicitly to try to _not_ kill Jaime Lannister as far as possible, if only just for that it would mean a lot to Brienne.

_Well, Sansa said as far as possible, and it would not be possible to keep this promise if you were to stand between me and Cersei, would it,_ thinks Arya, her eyes narrowing. Jaime has edged himself in between Arya and Cersei, his arms outstretched, seeming to want to placate her.

"Now, girl," Jaime is saying. "I know our families have not exactly been on the best of terms. We hate each other's guts; I get it. But _this_," at which he points up to the ceiling. The tower has kept up its ominous rumbling and seems likely to collapse any minute. "_This_, is not on us, the Lannisters. This is on your new queen. So now, consider carefully, before you serve her - if you should."

"First of all," says Arya, twirling Needle lightly, "I'm not a _girl_. I'm a grown-up woman and you will address me as such. Secondly, this is not for Daenerys Targaryen and her stupid throne. This one is for my father." And she lunges.

Jaime whips out Widow's Wail and takes Arya's blow. They begin sparring. Cersei retreats slowly to the sideline but whenever she tries to sneak away, Arya deals a blow quickly in her direction, forcing her behind Jaime's protection. Jaime is surprised at Arya's speed and skill, and keenly misses his good hand. Once the best swordsman in all of Westeros, he can only spar with Arya evenly without gaining an upper-hand.

"This is stupid," says Jaime reasonably. Arya thinks irritably that no Lannister has learnt that enviable habit of _shutting the fuck up_. "We are dueling in a crashing tower. Really, m'lady. I can think of many things we could be doing that would be more productive to both of our causes."

"Me letting you run away, and letting slip my only chance of killing Cersei, probably ever?" spits Arya. "Kingslayer, today's the day. We may all die together; but _she_ must die."

There's really nothing Jaime can say to that. What do you say to someone who's determined to throw away her own life? "Now, honestly, it's all the same for us," Jaime reasons, mostly to himself. "_We_ are old. We've lived and sinned our share. But _you_, m'lady. Your sister and brothers in the North will be looking for you, and missing you. They need you to help guard the North against the new tyrant; you know they do. Now ..." Jaime takes a breath as Arya's only response is by launching quicker and more deadly attacks. "You'll do well to stop talking like an uncle I never had. As if you actually _care__d_ about us," Arya snarls.

"Arya! What are you doing here?" As if on cue, Jon Snow emerges from the ashes of collapsed debris and stares wholly surprised at the scene. "And Ser Jaime! And ... you!" Jon looks as if he cannot get more bewildered. For a split second, Jaime feels for the poor man; it's not easy realizing your lover is a psychopath with genocidal tendencies. Recalling his own state of shock after hearing, on the road back from Riverrun, of how Cersei blew up the Sept of Baelor with wildfire, killing thousands, antagonizing the Tyrells, and causing Tommen to commit suicide, Jaime grimaces. It is not an easy impression to recover from, and some things can never be the same again.

In the split second when Jaime's attention was diverged by Jon's appearance, Arya thrusts Needle forward quickly and stabs Cersei in her side. Jaime hears Cersei's shriek of pain and twirls around; in a second, she is in his arms. Blood gushes out from her wound, but upon second look, Jaime sees that the cut is not deep nor fatal. You wouldn't be able to tell, though, by Cersei's howls of pain.

"Hello, sister," says Jaime.

Cersei glares at him. "I thought you were going to ignore me forever."

"Dear sister, I was fighting a duel for you," says Jaime, turning quickly to fend off more blows from Arya with his sword, until Jon grabs hold of Arya's sword arm all of a sudden.

"Jon, move away," says Arya, glaring at her brother. "Arya, you ... what exactly are you doing here? When did you arrive?" splutters Jon. "You need to leave. This place is dangerous. You're actually going to die here. You have to go, _now_."

"Thank you," interjects Jaime even though he is aware no one asked for his input. He relaxes his hold of Widow's Wail and shrugs at Jon. "That's what I've been saying for literally forever."

"I'm sorry, Jon, but this is my fight, and you don't get to tell me what to do. Your _Grace_," says Arya coldly. Jon opens his mouth to argue more, but Jaime takes this opportune moment to smack Arya, hard, in her head, with his golden hand. "What the ..." Jon draws his sword, pointing it towards Jaime, with the lightning speed of an experienced fighter, as the unconscious form of Arya crumples into his arms.

"Jon Snow, I will only say this once," says Jaime, becoming very serious. Urgency creeps into his tone. "I am here because I have unfinished business. So, I assume, do you. I'm going to take my sister away today no matter what, regardless of whether I'm dead or alive. But _you_ need to be alive. You know you do. This," Jaime points towards the ceiling, beyond which the snarls of Drogon are audible as he breathes more fire into the streets of King's Landing, "we need you for this. All of the Seven Kingdoms _need_ you for this. You can choose to fight me now and kill us both, or you can choose to save Arya, and more importantly, save yourself, so there is at least _someone_ who can lead us against the Mad Queen."

Upon hearing the words "the Mad Queen", Jon's face crumples. He closes his eyes in despair. Jon had originally rushed into the tower in hope of making his way to the top, so that on the roof of the tallest tower he can be the closest to Daenerys, and shout out to her and convince her to _stop_,_ stop_ this madness. He just cannot believe that this is her; no, she must be blinded by some circumstance; there must be a mistake. But Jaime's words have begun to crack the fog of incredulity clouding Jon's mind, and slivers of the truth break in. Maybe this _is_ her; maybe this is what she has always been. Jaime Lannister, holding the limp form of his former archenemy, could be right. This is not the end. Jon needs to be there to hold up the Seven Kingdoms against Daenerys, the Dragon Queen.

Before Jon can react to stop him, Jaime has half-dragged, half-carried Cersei away, hurrying down the winding staircase towards the keep where they keep the dragon skulls.

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_Thank you to reviewers who pointed out Jaime must be dead for Arya to take his face! Rookie mistake and I do apologize to all. I tried to make it clear in the chapter itself, but basically Arya got around this by taking the face of someone with a similar build as Jaime, and wearing some disguises. While this isn't too convincing, good thing is Arya didn't end up having to fool anyone pretending to be Jaime, anyway, so it's not super integral to the plot. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!_


	8. Ch8 The Journey

Two figures, one in hood and one in royal gown, the latter leaning heavily on the former, stagger and hurl themselves downwards on the spiral staircase. They're racing against time, and specifically against the structural integrity of the ancient clock tower, which has stood for centuries but is now on the verge of being casually taken down by a mammoth, fire-breathing dragon. Jaime hopes Tyrion has made good of his promise and arranged the dinghy with preparations for the sail to Pentos, and that the route to waterside is clear; if not, the only other alternative is being buried alive.

"You came back for me," says Cersei. Jaime sees tears gather in his sister's eyes. He knows she doesn't cry often and only does so when she's truly moved, or grieved - or trying to get something by convincing people that she is so. Jaime smiles a tight smile. "Too many people want you dead, Cersei. I have to."

_Pitter-patter_. Their footsteps echo as they descend into the giant keep of dragon skulls. _Go all the way down_, Tyrion's voice instructs. With Cersei in toll, Jaime finds another, smaller, concealed winding staircase, and follows it through a dark tunnel. When the tunnel opens onto a tiny beach, shrouded from external view by bushes, leading to a wash of water that join directly onto Blackwater Bay, both breathe a sigh of relief.

Jaime sees the small dinghy immediately, exactly as Tyrion has described, and helps Cersei into it. Overhead, the sounds of the dragon snarling, people screaming and buildings crashing are still audible - yet insulated, a little like hearing the sounds of the world from beneath a pillow, when he used to hide in his bed as a child. _I've always wanted to run away from the world_, Jaime thinks, smiling bitterly to himself. He's no hero; never has been. And no knight either. All he wanted is to be an ordinary man, yet ever since he was born, he has been placed with the greatest of expectations, and used as the most expensive bargaining chip in the great, churning, sickening game between the noble families. Maybe it's time for him to stop, to run away, to start life anew.

_Have you ever run away from a fight_? Unbidden, he hears himself tell Brienne. _Have you ever? Have you ever? Have you?_

The dinghy has food and water enough for a few weeks. While unlikely to be sufficient for a whole trip across the Narrow Sea, Jaime knows that the remnants of the Iron Fleet are still out there guarding Blackwater Bay, and they should be able to extend aid. The chief concern right now is to get Cersei out of Westeros.

Jaime tears off a strip of his shirt and wrap around Cersei's wound, tightly, to stop the bleeding. Then he wades into the water, pushing the dinghy along further away from the shore.

He walks and pushes; the water is now waist-high. Cersei says impatiently, "Stop, it is enough. Come in quick so we can row away."

Jaime straightens up. A moment, when their eyes meet, is enough. After all, they have always immediately understood each other.

"You're not coming with me," whispers Cersei.

Jaime says sadly, "Cersei. This is where we have to say goodbye."

"What?" Cersei splutters in equal parts disbelief and rage. "You're going to leave me, alone and dying, to drift into the open sea on my own? You're ..." she gives up on reasoning and yells, "you're sending me to my death! You know that!"

"The Iron Fleet is still somewhere out there and they can help you." Jaime half-closes his eyes. "Just lie low and avoid Dragonstone; you should be fine. Pentos is but two weeks' journey and the sea is calm. There's food and water enough; and your bleeding should stop within half an hour." He opens his eyes and stares gently, sadly, but straight into the depths of Cersei's green eyes, mirrors to his own. "I'm sorry, Cersei. I'm sorry that I can't come with you. That I can't die with you. I truly am."

Cersei grabs hold of his arm vehemently. "Have you forgotten?" She hisses. "We're the _same_, Jaime Lannister. One and the same. We come into the world together and leave it together. Nothing matters but the two of us. Have you forgotten?" She grips his arm even more tightly. "Come with me, Jaime. We can survive anything together; you know we can. We can start anew somewhere in Essos and plot and get our revenge."

Jaime shakes his head slowly and detaches himself from Cersei's grip. "I don't need revenge. Nor do I want it. Cersei, there's something you still have not understood."

"Our lives - every life - are a series of choices we make. Each tiny choice leads to who we are. I have made choices that enabled me to make a home in Westeros; I have chosen so that Jon Snow treats me with respect, that Arya Stark does not want to kill me at sight, that Brandon Stark and Sansa Stark have forgiven me. More importantly, I have chosen love, and found it; I have chosen honor, and found that it loves me back. Cersei. Every one of your choices has consequences. At the end of the day, we must each be accountable to the choices we made - because we're the only ones who can."

He leans in and gently kisses her on the forehead. "I will miss you, dear sister. You're family and kin and I'll never forget that. But remember, it's death if you return. I hope," he says in a small voice, but looking straight at her wide, astonished eyes. "I sincerely hope we never see each other again."

"Farewell."

"Jaime!" cries Cersei in rage. She tries one last time to grab at Jaime's arm, but fails, as he gives the dinghy one final, massive heave. The tide has caught on to the drift of the boat and within seconds has carried it far from shore, further out into the sea. Jaime stands in waist-high, frigid seawater for another moment, looking at the sister that he just sent away. His sister, twin, and lover, whom he knew better than anyone else in the world - and whom he has honestly never known. He crosses his fingers in his heart and prays to the Seven that Cersei will be blessed and survive this journey, that she may start a new life across the Sea.

Then Jaime turns back and makes his way to the shore. His work at Westeros is not done, nor is his life. He has more to do.

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_The past three or four chapters have been my response to 8x05. I understand that this is also a somewhat controversial way for things to turn out, but this ending is my own. The way I think of Jaime's feelings towards Cersei is this: while he does not love her romantically anymore, his love having been worn out by her manipulation and tyranny, he cannot detach himself from being a brother and kin to Cersei. Consequently Jaime would react to Cersei as any of us would to a sibling gone rogue; we make sure they don't die, but they pay for what they have done. Brienne of course gives another reason for Jaime to stay in Westeros and continue building the life he has there._

_I will wait for now for the final episode to come out, which I predict will be a showdown between Jon and Dany, and see if our hero, in this version of the story where he is not dead, can play any role, small or big, in the finale. Then there'll be a conclusion where Jaime returns to Winterfell. So goes my plan to conclude this initially intended 'short' fic - thank you again for reading so far. _


	9. Ch9 The March

Jaime has been riding hard for two days before he allows himself to take a break for the night, at a small inn off the King's Road. After sending Cersei off, Jaime has not endeavored to return to King's Landing, where he knows it is certain death for him, either during or after the sack of the city. After all, Daenerys has turned quite mad, and the city could not have been saved. Instead, he took a hidden path along the sea, continuing down far below where Daenerys' forces lay siege to the city, before turning back onto the road again under the cover of the night, having taken as his ride a stray horse on the way.

Cersei is still hanging on and has been intercepted by Euron's fleet, Jaime hopes; there has been no news of either of them, and as they say, no news is good news. There has been no news of Tyrion either, and Jaime is less sure that bids well for his brother. He tried his best to convince Tyrion to run, but he knows while Tyrion is a smart man, he has a soft spot for the innocent. Jaime hopes Tyrion hasn't taken his role as Daenerys's Hand _too_ seriously - after all, no one knows what they're dealing with when they're dealing with bloody _Targaryens_ \- and blamed himself too much. More importantly, Jaime hopes Tyrion has made it out of King's Landing and, like himself, is on the road North, to where it has - ironically, thinks Jaime - become the stronghold of human civilization.

Jaime rests his horse in the stables, makes his way into the inn and sits, hooded and brooding, with a warm ale, in the corner of the mess hall. The innkeeper, a chubby and friendly man, has promised to serve up hot chicken pies in a few minutes. The inn is not very occupied, off-season for traveling, Jaime supposes; but the few men supping are all talking excitedly about the latest news: Jon Snow, King in the North, has gathered his Northern troops, garrisoned at King's Landing, in the dead of the night and is now making his way north, all stealth and speed, to Winterfell.

Without thinking too keenly Jaime can guess at what has happened. Daenerys must have not been satisfied with the conquest of one city, and is now thirsty for more blood. Jon and Daenerys must have had a falling-out sometime before the massacre of King's Landing, since Jon has been powerless to stop her - and Jaime is sure Jon would have advised her otherwise. Jon has already become thoroughly disillusioned and disparaged about Daenerys during the massacre, and has only been binding his time to march his Northern troops north without alerting Daenerys. _Haven't they also been sleeping together_? Jaime thinks, bemused. Nothing tragic about this romance, though - Jaime can never see their attraction to each other, and after all, love only weighs so little in the face of survival, life, and duty.

A man invites himself to the seat next to Jaime and nods at him; Jaime hides his gloved, golden hand deeper into his sleeves. Since the War of Five Kings began, it's been ... inconvenient to be recognized, to say the least. This particular man though pays no attention to the identity of his companion. "Another war we're having, it seems," he says, sipping on warm ale. "Have you come from King's Landing? Terrible what's happened there."

"Aye, I heard," responds Jaime. "Tens of thousands of women and children burnt alive. The Red Keep collapsed under dragon fire. None were spared." He shakes his head. "I'm lucky to have missed all that; just come from Storm's End. What about you? Were you at King's Landing?"

The man pauses. "No. Somewhere further away."

Jaime shrugs; it is okay with him that his dinner companion does not want to share more about himself. Makes it easier to conceal his own identity. Jaime gestures with his thumb to the group of men sitting a table over. "Jon Snow, the King in the North, has gathered his forces. I wonder that the Dragon Queen doesn't hunt him down with her dragon and burn his army alive."

His companion says, digging into a meat pie, "Daenerys Targaryen is being held up with other things. Varys, the Spider, has written to the lords and ladies of Westeros of Jon Snow's true parentage. Daenerys is now Daenerys the Usurper. She has no right to sack the King's Landing, nor to the Iron Throne. Dorne has risen against her, in word at least, and the Reach and the Stormlands are gathering their forces. Daenerys' alliance is fast falling apart. And the support thrown behind Aegon Targaryen has never been stronger."

"Wait a minute," says Jaime, reeling a bit from the information. "Who's Aegon Targaryen? ... And did you say something about Jon?"

The man nods. "Exactly. It appears that Jon Snow is actually the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, giving him a stronger claim to the throne by the same vein of logic that Daenerys Targaryen uses. Which, of course, is why he fled from King's Landing to North. They're fire and ice; none can live while the other survives."

"Woah," says Jaime quietly. The blood relations between the noble families of Westeros have always been complicated but this is a crossover that can change the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. "I guess, good for Jon then. He already has the loyalty of the North, and the respect of many other Houses across Westeros for his service with the Night's Watch and his organization of the defense of the realm against the dead." Jaime pauses. "I'm headed to Winterfell myself, having personally been indebted to Jon. I'll be happy to serve under him again."

His companion polishes off his dinner, with satisfaction. He then turns to look at Jaime; for the first time, Jaime notices his piercing gray eyes, like rocks on the bottom of the clearest creek. "Aegon Targaryen has the support of many Houses across the realm; does that include House Lannister?" Without giving Jaime a chance to reply, he stands up. "A man is headed to Winterfell himself. A man must leave now. Perhaps we will meet again."

Jaime watches the mysterious man step into the darkness outside.

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_And I'm back! Following the crap of episode 5, the season finale did not disappoint and continued to be somehow mundane and inexplicable at the same time. I've thrown that all away and hope to conclude with my own ending shortly. Basically, I don't believe the conflict between Jon and Dany can be resolved by an assassination. Between leaders of that scale, it would have to be a war. No one likes wars, but a war it is. Stay tuned. _


	10. Ch10 The Taboo Man

Sansa Stark is pissed. It's frustrating to be the only one right, almost all the time, but who is obliged to sit back at Winterfell and watch all hell unfurl. She's itching to tell her idiot half-brother - well, really, cousin - a big fat _I told you so_, that Daenerys is _not_ a trustworthy queen, but he's still stuck somewhere en route from the South and she does not know if he is dead or alive. She _told_ Arya not to go to King's Landing to meddle with everything else, but obviously her younger sister did not listen, so now she doesn't know if Arya is dead or alive either. And she practically _begged_ Jon to not take all the Northern troops with him, to leave at least a quarter for the defense of the North, but that plead went to deaf ears. Left with only Winterfell's own city guard to defend against an impending dragon assault, it's no wonder the Lady of Winterfell has her mouth perpetually set in a grim line nowadays.

It does not help Sansa's mood that now she sits facing the entrance of one of her least favorite men in the realm: Jaime Lannister. Make no mistake, Jaime fought in the Battle of Winterfell and Sansa thanked him for that; but so did many other people; so did, for example, Daenerys, who now wants all of them dead. So strategically, thinks Sansa, the battle against the dead must mean nothing for the politics among the living. Sansa knows too much about what Jaime Lannister has done, and associates him with too much else, for her to ever be able to see him face-to-face without an unpleasant taste in her mouth. She would never trust any Lannister man, woman, or child. However, Sansa knows, too, that Jaime is not here for her.

"Lady Sansa," says Jaime, bowing deeply. "I'm sorry for disturbing your audience."

"Ser Jaime," says Sansa curtly. "What brings you _back_ to the North, if I may ask? We are currently preparing for war, and have no time to deal with demands from House Lannister."

"I understand," says Jaime reasonably. "Well, the situation stands as this: Daenerys Targaryen butchered the Lannister army, massacred the common people of King's Landing, caused the exile of my sister Cersei, and it is uncertain if she has executed my brother Tyrion under some pretense of treason. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, I'm sure you know this, Lady Sansa. House Lannister and House Stark have many past debts to settle, and if I have an army with me, I will gladly lead it to fight for Jon Snow. However, we no longer have an army; therefore I offer you, just myself." Jaime pauses. "And as I'm sure you have surmised, this is not the chief reason I am here."

Sansa narrows her eyes. "And if I may ask, what for are you here? For honor? Redemption? Or just a bit of good time?"

Of course Sansa has heard all about what happened between Brienne and Jaime. Brienne is the head of her Guard, and a deeply trusted friend and advisor. It hurt Sansa, too, to see Brienne after Jaime's departure; throwing herself into her work as if nothing has happened, hiding her pain deep inside. An ailment may have a thousand remedies, but a broken heart can only get better with time. Henceforth, under the orders of Sansa, no one at Winterfell ever speaks of the name Jaime Lannister within the hearing of Brienne. It has become a taboo name, and Jaime, a taboo man.

And now the taboo man has returned, and all of Winterfell bristles with anticipation: will this be a reconciliation, or will the Lannister man be deservedly thrown out into the wild?

Jaime closes his eyes, briefly, in pain. "For love, m'lady," he says quietly.

Sansa is silent for a moment. She has not known love in her time, not really. It touches her a little that this may be true. "Why did you go back for Cersei? You were the one who sent her to Pentos, weren't you?"

"Well, Tyrion and I both, to be honest," says Jaime. "Think a little of it as a parting gift for our dear sibling. I can never stop being Cersei's brother, m'lady, but," he draws out his sword, pointing it to the sky, "I can solemnly vow that I will not abandon Brienne of Tarth for any cause, reason, or motivation ever again."

Sansa waves her hand quickly. "You don't vow this in front of me," she says, having decided. "This is between Ser Brienne and yourself, and you would seek forgiveness from her. From my perspective, however, you have my permission to stay - in exchange for your service in the war campaign in defense of the North against Daenerys Targaryen." She stands up.

"Welcome back to Winterfell, Ser Jaime."

Jaime bows again. "Can I possibly request an audience with Ser Brienne?" He asks hopefully. "If you'll excuse me, it's rather ... urgent."

Sansa raises an eyebrow. "I can't promise that she'll see you, but I suppose there's no point delaying the inevitable, since you've already shown up here. Ser Brienne is attending to her duties at the training grounds."

Jaime's heart pounds heavily as he hurries out of the court of Lady Sansa, turning sharply to the left, over castles and battlements, to the training ground just behind the main courtyard of town. It's been over a month since he's last seen Brienne, during which the fate of Westeros has turnt twice over. To Jaime, however, this meeting feels as momentous as the collapse of the Red Keep, and as personally consequential. He has made up his mind that regardless of whether Brienne decides to accept him again, he will stay and make good of his promise to stay and defend Winterfell - and the vow, one-sided though it was, to defend and support and protect Brienne.

He has not always been this way, but from some unknown point in time onwards, Jaime's life has been lived from one vow to the next. Perhaps he wants to be the namesake for her sword - _Oathkeeper_ \- he does not intend to change this now.

Jaime turns another corner and there she is. The sun is setting and deep orange hues of the late evening color her light sandy hair, turning her armor golden. She stands tall amidst her troops, supervising their training, just like that day, so long ago, when he first arrived at Winterfell to join the forces of the living. Her soldiers cast quick glances at his approach, but otherwise stay silent. Brienne senses something amiss, and turns around.

Their eyes meet. The world stops for him, for just a moment, before he finds words again.

"Brienne. I am so, so sorry."

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_And we're into uncharted territory! I'm not a writer by trade and I'm sure it shows. Thanks for continuing to read this! I'd also like to respond to a review: I will not apologize for my characterization of Jaime. Up until 8x05, everything has been left up in the air, any turn of characterization for anyone was possible. Just because D&D chose the most unlikely turn - to surprise the audience, no doubt - doesn't mean that has to be the only way. If you agree with their ending, I'm really happy for you, and would suggest that you go back and rewatch the show instead of wasting your time here. Thanks all for reading!_


	11. Ch11 The Guard

"Brienne. I'm so, so sorry."

Brienne has caught the hush among her soldiers and somehow half-anticipated who it is before she turns around. But then again, she's anticipated the arrival of Jaime Lannister, and been disappointed by his lack of appearance, too damn many times in the past months. The sound of hooves on gravel, the rush of curtains opening, a dash of sunlight on a golden head - everything reminded her of Jaime, _and_ the fact that it was _not_ Jaime, that Jaime left her for another woman. When the man himself somehow materialized in front of her - sunburnt, wind-blown, slightly disheveled, but otherwise still the same Jaime that left her that clear dawn - her breath is taken away.

"Oh." Brienne can only manage. It's a little like being punched, not too hard, in the stomach; just the sound of air whooshing out of her body.

"Brienne, I..." Jaime shakes his head as if confused. "I'm sorry for just leaving you all of a sudden. I... I had to. I can explain."

Brienne collects herself together, drawing herself up taller. Since she's naturally taller than Jaime, this manages to let her gaze coldly down at his apologizing, pleading eyes. "Ser Jaime. You owe no explanation to me. You did what you had to do; I get it. Now could you please let me get on with my work. These men need training."

With that, she brushes Jaime aside and strides quickly past him. Congratulating herself on her own self-composure, Brienne does her best to shut off that little excited voice in her head screaming _he came back for you, he did, he's here!_ After all, as she's learnt bitterly, Jaime Lannister does what he pleases, and his fancy can change in a matter of seconds. _None of this matters to you_, she tells herself.

"What are you all watching? Continue!" Brienne barks out to the soldiers as Jaime tails her around the squad.

"Brienne," continues Jaime doggedly. "I know I shouldn't expect you to forgive me; really, I get it. But I need to ask this and I will say it now: can we go back to what we used to be? Please?"

Brienne turns abruptly and glares at Jaime, who, not anticipating, almost bumps into her. "Ser Jaime. What we _used_ to be appeared to be a joke to you. If you please, I will play the fool no longer. I don't need to tossed away by one more man. You can save your breath."

Every one of her words cuts deep. Jaime knows what must have hurt her the most: that he offered love and promised eternity to a vulnerable heart, but turned and betrayed her in a matter of weeks. He cannot even explain what he did, except that he _had to_. Jaime puts on his most earnest face. "It's okay that you don't accept me. It's fine. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

Brienne stares at him. "No," she says, and turns away.

Podrick, who happens to be training nearby, breaks away from his sparring to pat Jaime sympathetically on the shoulder, which Jaime brushes aside with great irritation. "I'll still be serving under your command, Ser Brienne!" Jaime calls out after her retreating figure. "I've offered my services to Lady Sansa, and she accepted. Since you command the only force left in Winterfell, I'm honored to be reporting to you. Again."

At a distance, Brienne turns her head quickly to glance at Jaime once, before stalking away.

Podrick winks at Jaime. "I guess that's a yes." He takes this chance to throw him a wooden sword; Jaime catches it adroitly. "Let's begin, then. May I?"

Jaime continues training with the rest of Brienne's men for half a week before one night he was summoned out of his chambers for an emergency meeting with the Winterfell war council. He supposes Sansa Stark finds him to be a potential source of valuable information, after all. Jaime throws on his coat, rather eagerly. In the whole of the few days since he's met Brienne, he has not managed to speak to her more, and she refuses to look at him. Jaime knows better than to disturb a lady who is clearly still mad at him, but he's eager to be in her presence. As the head of the Winterfell Guard, he's sure Brienne will be at the war meeting.

Jaime pushes the heavy wooden door open to find a small circle of generals and advisors seated around Sansa Stark, all looking very sombre. "M'lady," he says politely. Also present are Brandon Stark, the Three-Eyed Raven, Podrick, and of course, Brienne, who glances at him cursorily and looks away.

"Let's start," says Sansa briskly. "Bran. Did you say Daenerys Targaryen has reached the Twins?"

"Yes." Bran speaks with his customary calm. "She can reach here within a day, of course, by flight, but she would rather attack with her land forces. The Dothraki thirst to kill and rape and pillage; they're not happy with the way she handled King's Landing. For Daenerys, torching King's Landing only serves to send a message. Their land travel will take another two days."

"What does she want?" Sansa starts pacing up and down. "We can't ask the other Northern Houses to send us support, and leave their women and children unprotected. Gods only know Jon took most of the North's fighting men. Is she headed straight for Winterfell? Or does she intend to bend the knee of every House along the way?"

Bran looks at her sister steadily. "There is no need for them to bend the knee if you do. You are the Lady of Winterfell, and, in addition, she knows you do not like her. You are her biggest threat."

Sansa sticks her chin out stubbornly. "I would offer myself to her if that's going to stop her massacring the North. She can do what she wants with me."

"It will not," says Jaime reflectively. "I've seen Daenerys Targaryen in King's Landing; I know. What she wants is not just surrender, but utter submission. She wants to break the spirit of all people, and, in the process of the rebirth, burn them all - if you'll excuse the expression."

Sansa winces. "How many troops do we have?" She demands, turning to Brienne.

"Three hundred infantry, two hundred calvary. A handful of archers," Brienne replies.

"That's not going to stand a chance against Daenerys and her dragon," Sansa says desperately, closing her eyes.

"What if we don't have to?" says Jaime suddenly, an idea coming to him. All around the table turn sharply to look at him. "Daenerys may have the dragon, but she doesn't have the Three-Eyed Raven. She may be able to destroy everything, but she can't _know_ everything," Jaime explains. "What we need to do is a mass evacuation. Lady Sansa, you should bring the Winterfell folks north, beyond the Wall. Take them somewhere and lie low. In the meantime, the Guard can create an appearance of a city under siege, to stall Daenerys' forces."

Bran says, "You're saying that we evacuate the people of Winterfell, and leave our Guard behind to stand against Daenerys' armies?"

Sansa says sharply. "I will not leave my Guard for a fools' errand. Ser Jaime, your idea is valid. But if we go, we all go together."

"That won't work," Brienne speaks up. Jaime shoots her a look of appreciation. "The point here is the deception. If there is no one at Winterfell, Daenerys will know to look elsewhere immediately. It won't take her long to uncover our trail to the Wall."

Sansa begins to protest, but is cut off by Bran. "This may yet work," he says. "We can appeal to Castle Black and Tormund Giantsbane for help. They don't owe us, but they might just lend us aid on account of Jon."

"The Free Folk are honorable people. You'll be safe with them, m'lady," says Brienne, bowing slightly to Sansa. Jaime cannot help but frown at the compliment paid to the Free Folk. _Who is she thinking of_?

"Wait, wait, wait," Sansa says, trying to bring the consensus under control. "If anyone is staying, I am. I _have_ to. What kind of Lady of Winterfell am I, if I don't stay to guard it?"

"A good one," interjects Jaime. "The North needs you to keep its morale up, Lady Sansa. Who else can lead the people on their voyage beyond the Wall, if not you? We need you to be brave, and more importantly, to be alive."

"I can't do this," splutters Sansa, standing up. She turns on Bran rapidly. "Where is Jon? Can he reach before Daenerys?"

Bran wargs away for a brief moment before coming back to the present. "He's close," he says quietly. "Let me send him a raven and ask him to speed up as much as possible."

"If the Guard holds up the impression of the city under siege and Jon comes back in time with the bulk of our forces, we may yet stand a chance against Daenerys' army," reasons Brienne. Podrick nods in agreement.

Sansa shakes her head. "I still don't like this plan. There's got to be something else."

Before the discussion goes further, however, a guard knocks on the door. "Lady Sansa, someone is here to see you. He says he's a friend of Arya's."

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_Thanks for all your kind reviews! I'm so glad you are enjoying the story. Excuse my conflation of two chapters into one. War is coming soon._


	12. Ch12 The Friend

"A friend of Arya's?" frowns Sansa. "Let him in."

As the newcomer strides into the room, Jaime recognizes him instantly as the man with whom he has shared a meal in the inn on the way to Winterfell: the same dark blonde lanky hair, shrewd eyes, dressed in garbs that can very well be described as rags on the cleaner side. He bows slightly. "A man is here to see Lady Sansa."

"Who are you, and what brings you here?" Sansa demands.

Before the man can answer, however, Bran intercepts. "He is no one, but goes by Jaqen H'ghar. He is one of the Faceless Men of the East. In short, they're trained assassins."

Jaqen H'ghar nods briefly at Bran. "The Three-Eyed Raven. We serve different Gods."

"We do," says Bran, and seems to desire to speak no more.

Jaqen H'ghar directs his attention to Sansa. "Arya Stark is a friend. A man wishes to see her again. A man hears that there is war coming - war in which a man could be useful."

"Useful..." muses Sansa, frowning. The term "Faceless Men" rings a bell and Sansa recalls the eerie collection of faces she has once seen in Arya's chambers at Winterfell. "You are an assassin, but do you bring an army?"

"No, but a man brings this." Jaqen H'gar turns his face away from his audience, and, upon turning back, he bears the face of a very earnest and sombre Jon Snow. Gasps of shock spread around the room. Jaqen H'ghar removes his face easily, his features lapsing back to the previous. "Lady Sansa. The Faceless Men do not participate in the rife of the realm, but a man is here for a friend. A man serves a different God from the Three-Eyed Raven, but equally, the reign of the dragon's terror must be opposed. _Valar dohaeris_. A man offers this: to stand atop the wall of Winterfell on the day of battle, and play a little game of faces."

"He can pretend to be Jon," says Jaime, comprehending the proposal. He turns quickly to the rest of the council. "This could work."

Jaqen H'ghar continues, "The dragon will not be fooled, and the dragon rider may not. But the rest of the army - ay, we may try."

Bran nods, "Thank you."

Brienne speaks up, "So, the plan is this. The Winterfell Guard will mount sufficient defenses inside and outside the city, and wait for Daenerys' army to lay siege. This - fake Jon Snow - will be in a visible place, to convince the enemy that the bulk of our forces are here, and make them hesitate, buying more time for the people of Winterfell to evacuate to the other side of the Wall. And then - we wait."

Jaime nods, knowing exactly what Brienne is getting at. "We wait for the actual Jon Snow to arrive."

Brienne glances at him cursorily. "Aye. And then we fight."

Sansa says, thinking hard, "How sure are we that Daenerys would not just fly over Winterfell and see an empty city?"

"She will see a city with all doors shut and everyone locked in, sister," says Bran. "She will see some of our army, exposed, ready for siege. But how would she know better?"

Everyone looks steadily at Sansa, waiting for her decision. Brienne says gently, "It is the only way."

"Alright," says Sansa, standing up. "I will take the weak and vulnerable, elderly and children, injured and sick folks from Winterfell to beyond the Wall immediately. We set off tomorrow. We will take only food and horses enough for travel, and rely on Castle Black and the Wild Folk for aid. The rest of able-bodied men and women, and horses and weapons, I will leave to you," addressing Brienne, who nods in acceptance. Sansa turns to Bran. "Are you coming with us?"

"I will be more useful here," Bran says, tilting his head slightly. "I will not be harmed; I could not. And in any case, didn't Father always say? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"Thank you," Sansa says with appreciation. She then addresses Jaime. "Ser Jaime. You don't have to do this."

"Well," says Jaime, shooting a pointed look at Brienne and mustering his best earnest voice, "there is nowhere else I can possibly be."

Brienne looks as if she has choked a little. Sansa meets Jaime's earnest look with equal solemnity. "Ser Jaime, we the Starks will be forever grateful to House Lannister for your service. And to the Faceless Men, as well," she says to Jaqen H'ghar, who merely bows his head.

Bran is the one who concludes the meeting. "We start tomorrow."

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_To better fit the current pace, chapters may be shorter - sorry about this! Also I'm bringing the controversial face-shifting trick back. Yes, Jon is still alive. A reviewer pointed out that faces of living people could be used, so just for this fic, let's stick with that. Thank you for reading!_


	13. Ch13 The Wait

"They come today," Brandon Stark has said.

Jaime stands atop the wall of Winterfell fortress, facing the wide plains of the North - plains which, in the Battle against the Undead, were filled with soldiers of the living, Northerners and Wildings, the Unsullied and the Dothraki - plains which now are empty save for snow. Snow has fallen again, after Sansa has set off further north with the common folk of Winterfell, conveniently, thinks Jaime, for the white will cover their tracks. Snow has been falling, even though winter is supposed to have passed. In all fairness, Jaime supposes it is warmer now than a month ago; the snow is not frigid, but gentle. Still, he would have preferred to be done with snow.

Next to Jaime is Brienne of Tarth, and next to her, Jaqen H'ghar, in full Stark battle suit and already wearing the face of Jon Snow. Bran sits in the shelter of the wooden roof behind them, placidly, hands folded across his lap. They are all waiting.

It is silent except for the breeze puffing at the flags around them. They are listening - for the wings of the dragon, maybe, or the yelps of the Dothraki, the thuds of the footsteps of the Unsullied. But so far, nothing.

Jaime looks across the great white plains and remarks, "Here we are again."

Brienne agrees, "Here we are."

"We thought we faced death the last time. Little did we know how soon death comes for us again after," says Jaime, reminiscing.

"Death is not something to be feared. All men must die," observes Jaqen H'ghar.

"Death is only because we have something to live for. To defend," says Brienne. From Jaime's perspective she seems to draw herself even taller. He shoots her a warm look of appreciation.

"And yet only with death, is life meaningful," he says. "What a conundrum we have here, eh? And here we are. Two knights, a Faceless man, and a cripple, defending a city."

"You forget the hundreds we have conscripted, in addition to the Winterfell Guard. These men and women are laying down their lives too," Brienne points out. Before Sansa left, she posted a draft for what little men and the women left in Winterfell, that those willing may stay to help with the defense. A surprising number of Winterfell folks volunteered, and those who left with Sansa were mostly those who had to. Jaime has to admit that the Northerners are a tough and damn honorable lot.

Scattered around them on the top of the fortress are archers, stone-slingers, and men manning the resemblances of the Scorpion, which Sansa had the Winterfell blacksmiths hammer up the moment Daenerys left Winterfell. They are resemblances of the Scorpion because, of course, Winterfell did not have Qyburn's exact formula; still, in power and build, the new Scorpions are close enough. While Jaime remains unconvinced that these can take down Drogon - he saw with his own eyes what happened at King's Landing - he supposes these are their best hope. After all, one dragon _had_ been taken down by a Scorpion.

"What a fight we'll have," says Jaime lightly. He turns to Bran, "Say, aren't you able to warg into ... stuff? Can't you just warg into the dragon and we can all be done with it?"

Bran stares at him coldly. "Why didn't I just warg into the Night King? Why don't I just warg into Daenerys Targaryen?" Jaime sees the faintest approximation of an eye-roll, as much as the dignity of the Three-Eyed Raven would allow. "I only see, and know, but do not control," says Bran, his voice dripping with disdain, as he wheels himself away.

"What?" Jaime says as Brienne shoots him a look. "I was joking! Ow!" - as she pokes him quickly in the ribs.

Jaime smiles. "Whatever you may think of me, I'm not that thick-headed a person."

"I think you're a good man, Jaime Lannister," Brienne says after a beat, looking into the distance.

Jaime looks up at her quickly. "Brienne..."

"You're honorable," she says, cutting him off. "You're always where the people need you. That's why you came here the first time, went back to King's Landing, and came here again. You're indefatigable, really." She smiles faintly. "You live up to your title as a knight. I respect you. But," she pauses. "I once thought that was enough, for me, but I was wrong. I cannot give my heart to someone who only takes it because he needs to, Jaime. What if someone else needs you, another time, to be their knight in shining armor? What if there is another Cersei, another King's Landing, another promise?" Brienne takes a deep breath. "And you know me - I'm not a very needy person."

"I think you got me completely wrong," Jaime says quietly.

"Let us just remain the way we are now, Ser Jaime," Brienne smiles a little. "Two knights respecting each other. Two knights sparring. Two knights defending a city. Is that not enough?"

"It is not," Jaime says curtly. "Without you, there would be no me. You _are_ special to me, Brienne of Tarth. Now if you won't be so stubborn and refuse to believe that..."

Brienne opens her mouth to argue with Jaime more, but the two are cut off by the voice of Jon speaking in completely uncharacteristically uncaring tones. "Hold off your lovers' fight," Jaqen H'ghar says. "Listen."

They hold their breath. It seems as though the whole city - the whole North - is holding its breath, in that very second. _One, two_. And then they heard it.

The snarl of the dragon, the whoops of the Dothraki, the thundering of hooves and spears, all rolled up in the terrifying combination of what Jaime can only think of as the sound of Death.


	14. Ch14 The Dragon

Daenerys can see nothing but white beneath her.

When she first started out riding dragons, she was exhilarated, but to be honest, frightened. She would keep herself as low as possible against Drogon's back, trying hard not to think of the height of a potential fall. She practiced riding her three dragons in turn for hours on end, sometimes in the middle of the night, unknown to all except those closest to her, until slowly all three became accustomed to a human rider, and learnt to turn and swoop and soar and breathe fire following her will. Daenerys is never afraid of working harder and going further than the next person. She knows the value of preparing, of biding her time, until she grows so strong against her enemies that victory is inevitable.

Right now, for example, the only thing on Daenerys' mind is taking down Winterfell.

She leans forward and Drogon swoops with agility, cutting through the clouds. Up ahead Daenerys finally sees the shape of a looming fortress, a dark and brooding architecture typical of the North. _Winterfell._

Drogon growls in excitement. Daenerys glances back at her troops on the ground. After the sacking of King's Landing, she has been persuaded by Grey Worm and Khal Qhono, leader of her Dothraki bloodriders, to stagger the fury of dragon fire and ground assault in future attacks, so that they can reap the benefits of looting a large city to feed their army and dragon, and at the same time avoid the lamentable loss of their own men from undiscriminating dragon fire. As much Daenerys is unwilling to surrender the efficacy and speed of her former strategy, after the death of Missandei and Jorah Mormont, the execution of Varys, and the betrayals of Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister, she has no other lieutenants left but Grey Worm and Khal Qhono. So she begrudgingly ceded to their requests, and had to admit that their strategy actually works, too; in their earlier sacking of Highgarden, the coordination of land and air forces went well as planned.

Winterfell, though, can be another story. Daenerys has heard word that her traitor nephew, Jon Snow, Targaryen by blood, may have already returned to Winterfell. She grits her teeth. If that's the case, she would show Jon Snow what exactly is meant by Fire and Blood.

There is nothing Daenerys hates more in the world than disloyalty. Perhaps it's because she has experienced more than her fair share of it; her trusted advisers and close ones have a tendency to either have been converted from a former betrayal, or turn traitor eventually. Daenerys does not pause to think if it is precisely her dislike of disloyalty and her refusal to hear dissent that breeds disillusionment in the first place; as a monarch of the Seven Kingdoms defending her land and creating a new regime, "breaking the wheel", as she calls it, she has no time to second-guess herself. Of all betrayals, Jon Snow's hit closest to home. It's not so much that they were lovers - no, Daenerys is not a romantic. She resents that Jon Snow has somehow convinced her to march North and fight _his war_, losing half of her army in return, and _then_ renege on his promise to support her as the Queen. Daenerys feels like she's been played for a fool, and she does not like being the fool.

No, if Jon Snow were here, make no mistake, she's going right for his head.

With a few flaps of his great wings, Drogon is within the visible range of Winterfell. Daenerys squints and can barely make out the figures standing atop the fortress. That's Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister ... Drogon jerks and flips upwards in a U-turn to avoid a Scorpion sting, as the Winterfell men begin firing methodically at them. Daenerys is brought back into the clouds as she recollects the third figure standing on the Winterfell walls. _Is that Jon?_

In a flash, the dragon and rider dive back through the clouds again, and are immediately welcomed with an onslaught of Scorpion stings, long and hardy spear-like arrows whose ends explode in sharp lethal splinters upon contact with a body. Daenerys thinks irritably that Sansa Stark is well-prepared. She _knew_ that bitch didn't like her. Drogon weaves expertly through the rain of Scorpion stings as he has been trained to. Daenerys takes this chance to cast her gaze at Winterfell again. Yes, that is definitely the wavy, unkempt black hair, imposing figure, and woeful face of Jon Snow.

So he's made it back here after all.

_The Targaryens love the South and the sea; the Starks love their cold and their snow. So tell me, Jon Snow, who are you?_

Daenerys would hypothetically ask this question of Jon; she would have loved to see his face crunched in conflict of a choice he cannot make, as he always does. But now she supposes she'd have to wait until they meet again after this life. She leans forward and Drogon obediently swoops toward Winterfell. "_Dracarys_," she says through her teeth. Fire rains on half of the Winterfell fortress in range; soldiers cry out in pain as they are burnt alive. As the other Scorpion riders rally, Daenerys is forced to return to the clouds again.

She takes a moment to reflect and glances down at her land troops. They don't have the advantages of her speed and her powerful arsenal. She knows both Grey Worm and Khal Qhono to be fierce but cautious battle strategists. They are clearly taken aback by the lack of troops arrayed outside the city and the presence of Jon Snow. Daenerys knows this implies that the bulk of the Northern troops are somehow hidden in the city - or ambushed somewhere. They could be in a trap.

Daenerys decides that her lieutenants are right to proceed with caution. She nods at Grey Worm and Khal Qhono, who begin to rearrange their troops in siege-laying formation: a quarter of calvary flanking each direction to protect the core, the infantry marching forward with ladders, shields and a large ram to either scale the walls of the fortress, or else ram the gates open. On the other hand, Daenerys has no need to deal with such logistics, nor is she in any way daunted by Jon Snow. Drogon swoops down again as she launches her second attack, aiming to blow to ashes all these annoying Scorpions once and for all.

"_Dracarys_," she instructs, as rows of Winterfell Scorpion riders scream and squirm in anguish amidst the flames. The entire west block of the Winterfell fortress is basically atop with fire, all Scorpions and archers destroyed. Daenerys pulls back and surveys the scene, mentally weighting the difficulty of attacking the east flank first versus going straight for the kill: Jon Snow. She notices Jaime Lannister staring at her. That strange, incestuous man, Daenerys thinks for a moment. Riding up and down Westeros, even though this is not his game of thrones. Does he think himself some savior of the world?

Daenerys has just decided that just by virtue of his traitorous siblings, she has a legitimate reason to execute him, when Drogon lurches and howls in pain. They have been caught unawares by a second batch of Scorpions located under the roof of the west block, which have been quietly exited for use in the space of the moment Daenerys contemplated next steps. Jaime has conveyed to the Winterfell Guard how easily Daenerys could destroy Scorpions in plain view, leading a general to come up with the idea of a rotational setup of Scorpions and archers. This gives greater hope of taking down the dragon, their biggest fear. Daenerys mentally kicks herself as she tries to guide Drogon upwards, to safety, but to no avail, as archers seize on this opportunity to land more stings in Drogon's side.

Drogon is a big and sturdy dragon, well-trained by his mother, but one sting in particular landed in the joint of his wing connecting to his body, making it impossibly painful for him to fly. Despite Daenerys' best coaxing, Drogon has to land on a roof of one of the Winterfell outposts, outside of the shooting range of the closest Scorpion, growling furiously as the stings tear into his flesh.

"Drogon..." Daenerys says anxiously, trying to soothe his hurt. While dragons are made for war and recovers very quickly, she can tell the damage caused by the multiple stings will take a few days of intense care. _I'll make you pay for this,_ she grits her teeth and silently promises the North. Right now, however, she has to let Drogon rest and lick his wounds, and wait for him to recover sufficiently so they can fly back to their base. Daenerys hopes Grey Worm and Khal Qhono will make headway with the siege, but she knows there is no rush. They can wait a couple of weeks for Drogon to recover before laying another attack. Regardless, Winterfell is doomed.

Daenerys does not know that another plan is being hatched against her. When he sees Drogon being taken down, Jaime Lannister grabs a long sting and rushes away. "Jaime..." Brienne says, surprised, but he has already gone.

It only takes him a couple of minutes to climb the tower on which Drogon is perched. Jaime can hear the low voice of Daenerys soothing Drogon, and that of the dragon weeping in pain. From the earlier Battle of the Goldroad, his first encounter against Drogon, Jaime knows how lethal the dragon is, and how acute his senses. He tiptoes around the top floor of the tower, just below the roof, finding a vantage point so he can have a clear view of Drogon's back. Strapping the sting around his body, Jaime carefully scales up the pillar, and reaches the roof.

Jaime's dream has always been to be the knight of all knights, and for any knight, battling against a dragon has to be the highest honor. Or so Jaime tells himself, as he finds himself time and again taking on a dragon one-on-one. In the Battle of the Goldroad, his charge failed, and he was saved narrowly by Bronn. This time, he is not going to charge, but there is also no one to save him.

_This is our only hope_, Jaime tells himself, and steels himself. He leaps lightly onto the roof.

As he has thought, Drogon is back-facing him, and so is Daenerys, who has gotten off the dragon and is absorbed in stroking his cheek, trying to alleviate his pain. Jaime sees his chance, and aims the sting squarely at Daenerys' exposed back. He throws with all his strength.

_Whoosh_. Perhaps his gesture has caught Drogon's attention, or perhaps it is the sound of the sting sailing through the air. At that very moment, Drogon turns around.

For the second time in his life, Jaime's gaze is locked with that of the yellow pupils of the dragon, bright and menacing. He knows he should jump, but somehow he is frozen in his tracks. _Let me burn,_ he thinks.

The dragon opens his mouth.

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_Hi you all lovelies! Hope you enjoyed this long chapter. I've always been captivated by the scene where Jaime charges directly at the dragon, and thought I'd try to recreate it here. As always, thank you for reading!_


	15. Ch15 The Promised Prince

Jaime dodges instinctively, shielding his face with his arm. But the expected deadly blaze does not come. Accompanying an enraged roar, Jaime peeks and watches as Drogon throws his head back and bellows flames vertically into the depths of the sky.

"What even ..." Jaime thinks wildly. Then he notices a dark figure, not-too-tall, which has thrown himself in front of him unnoticed.

"Drogon would not hurt me," says Jon Snow quietly, without emotion.

"Jon?" Jaime asks, taking a brief moment to recollect that this must be the actual Jon, and not Jaqen H'ghar, since as the latter has said himself, he would not fool a dragon. "Jon! Thank the gods..."

It is a spectacle to behold. Columns of flame emanate from the dragon's mouth, like silent wails of rage. Whenever Drogon pauses, he stares with those great yellow eyes and narrow pupils directly at Jon, before throwing his great dragon head back and hurling out flames again; as though he wants to vent all his hatred at Jon, but cannot. Jaime wonders if there is not some truth in the legend that all Targaryens have some dragon blood.

"Leave, now," Jon commands Jaime. He has drawn Longclaw and is aiming his steely gaze right at Daenerys Targaryen, who looks back at the scene coldly. The sting Jaime threw has not come close to reaching her, having been swatted easily away by Drogon's tail. "This is between me and her."

"You'll need a hand. I'm not leaving you," says Jaime, raising his sword.

"I'm not hurt by dragon fire, whereas you will most certainly die," Jon points out. "If you want to help me, go keep an eye on the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Go!" He says as he charges forward, sword drawn, dodging nimbly the motions of an enraged Drogon.

Jaime throws himself to the ground to avoid an onslaught of dragon fire from Drogon. Jon was right; as Drogon is unable to hurt Jon, he has focused all his energy on roasting Jaime instead. Jaime scrambles to the stairs landing, mentally wishing Jon Snow good luck.

As he rushes down the stairs, Jaime's ears catch an unwelcome sound: a sort of deadly, metallic thud in unison. His heart sinks. It seems the Unsullied has caught his little act, as well as Jon Snow's arrival, and have come to protect their queen. As a small group of the best Unsullied soldiers, led by Grey Worm, charges with purpose up the stairs, the same flight of stairs that Jaime has to retreat down, he takes a deep breath. Steeling himself, Jaime charges.

Moments go by in a blur as Jaime engages Grey Worm in a deadly spar. A veteran fighter with a quick mind, Grey Worm has not been caught by surprise when Jaime leapt out from above. He fends off Jaime's sword blows evenly, at the same time directing his squad to surround Jaime on all sides. Jaime is a good swordsman, but swords are not the best weapon against the sharp thrust of the long spear, and he has only one sword-wielding arm. He is barely aware that he is taking some blows in the spaces between the pieces of his armor, that blood is gushing from his deepening wounds.

"Jaime!" is the last sound he hears as he goes down.

The first thing Jaime registers as he opens his eyes is firelight. He lies somewhere amidst warm sheets, close to a hearth. His head is throbbing painfully and his lips are parched. Jaime feels as if he has just woken up from a long, bad dream.

"Wa... water," he croaks, and to his surprise, a bandaged hand immediately hands a cup of water to him. Glancing to his left, Jaime realizes he is not alone. Sapphire-blue eyes in a freckled face framed by cropped sandy hair gaze back at him with the hint of a smile.

"You're awake," says Brienne quietly. "Podrick!" She calls to someone outside the door. "Have the Maester come in immediately. Ser Jaime is conscious."

"Brienne..." says Jaime, grasping for words. "What... what happened? Where am I?" He grips the sheets in sudden recollection. "Is the battle won? Is the war over? Jon Snow... "

"Jon Snow, as the fabled princes in fairytales do, cut down the dragon," Brienne finishes his sentence. "He captured Daenerys Targaryen and sentenced her to death. The Northern forces and reinforcements from other Houses in the realm waged a three-day bloodbath against the Unsullied and the Dothraki before we finally took them down. Samwell Tarly is recording the chapter as the Second Targaryen Invasion, after Aegon's Conquest some three hundred years ago." She takes Jaime's hand and presses it gently. "We won, Jaime."

Jaime's head is still splitting from pain, and the world swims around him. "How long have I been gone?"

"Almost two weeks," Brienne informs him. "You took a pretty bad beating from the Unsullied by the time I arrived. You were bleeding too much and had some internal hemorrhage. The Maester almost thought you... you wouldn't make it." Her voice trembles just a little.

Jaime presses her hand with the little strength he can muster; he still feels extremely weak, but the warmth, the good news and Brienne's presence is starting to make him feel as if everything will be okay. "Is everyone else alright? Are people back in Winterfell?"

"Lady Sansa and the rest who took shelter beyond the Wall just returned yesterday. There were a couple of casualties, but most made the journey unscathed."

Jaime leans back into his pillow with a sigh of relief. Hopefully this is the last war these war-worn people will have to see for a long, long time, he thinks. Brienne continues, "By the way, Lord Tyrion sent word that he'll be here in a few days. It seems he's escaped King's Landing alright. Right after its sacking, he got Ser Davos to smuggle him away in the trunk of some cargo wagon or another, and got taken all the way to Riverrun. I thought you'd want to know."

"That's wonderful," Jaime says softly. It's almost too good to be true, that the people he cares about have survived two of the most deadly conflicts in history - and that he's alive to see it. _Too goddamn many revolutions in my time_, Jaime thinks, closing his eyes. Perhaps the only thing better than surviving the old world while it is being taken down, is seeing the building of the new. A new world of peace, and fair game, and just rule. Jaime is sure Westeros is more than ready.

Brienne, as if reading his thoughts, holds his hand a little more tightly. "It's over, Jaime. Five years of war, feuds, and mad conflict... seems unbelievable, but we can put all that behind us now."

_Not_ _really, _thinks Jaime. There is still Cersei somewhere across or in the middle of the Narrow Sea. There is still Brandon Stark, now the Three-Eyed Raven, whose childhood, and indeed whole life, he has destroyed. There is still the huge carcass of Drogon lying in the wastelands, and streams of blood that stain the wintry grass of the North. The past will never be behind them, he thinks. Yet now is not the time to think about that.

"How goes the King in the North?" says Jaime, respect creeping into his voice. "He saved my life."

"You mean, the King," corrects Brienne, "of the Seven Kingdoms."

Jaime's smile grows, although it hurts him to stretch his cheeks. "Of course. And long may he reign."

"Don't you worry about His Grace," says Brienne, her eyes narrowing. "He's got more brains as a babe than you in your prime years. What were you thinking, confronting the dragon on the tower like that? Did you know we lost our formation?"

"I'm sorry..." Jaime begins.

"Did you know we almost lost you? That _I_ almost lost you? _Again_?" Brienne's voice raises unconsciously. She leans in with menace. "Try doing this to me again, Jaime Lannister, and _I'll kill you_."

Jaime brings her hand to his lips, and gently, slowly, kisses each of her knuckles, looking straight into her lovely blue eyes. It feels good to be home.

"I take it that you've forgiven me," he says.


	16. Ch16 The Epilogue

Jaime stands against the sunset as the aptly named Sunset Sea washes against the dark, sandy beach. Rich folds of red and gold, the Lannister colors, rest comfortably on his shoulders. He has swapped out his lighter and more useful leather prosthetic that Samwell Tarly has devised for him after the war for his old, golden hand, for this special occasion. Brienne has told him more than once that it doesn't matter, but he is vain. That right hand used to be his source of pride for the first thirty-odd years of his life, and it went out with a bang - it led to him meeting her. Jaime wants to remember that.

Brienne, tall and almost regal in a gown of ivory satin, leans not at all on her father's arm as they walk down the aisle. She has a little coat of arms of House Tarth embroidered on her gown, signaling her status as a knight and her forever loyalty to House Tarth, even as she ceases to be a Tarth in name. Jaime did not mind and thought it rather fitting. After all, after the recent wars, neither of them care much for the divisions and loyalties among the Houses of the realm any more. The sun's last rays, orange and radiant, hit her face at an angle, and they walk slowly but surely towards Jaime - as handsome as the first day she met him, Brienne thinks, and looking rather nervous. She chuckles a little to herself.

Tyrion gets the good seat - one of the rare advantages of being a Lord dwarf - and thinks the couple, both tall and blond, framed by the sea and the brilliant sunset, makes for a pretty picture. The golden sigil signaling Hand of the King once again pinned proudly to his chest - despite his repeated attempts to say no to Jon Snow - Tyrion is again the busiest man in all of Westeros, rising before dawn and working well into the night to oversee the rebuilding of the whole realm and the reconstructing of relations between regions and across the Seas. It's tough work, but Tyrion enjoys it. Tyrion can now admit that ironically, he is the Lannister who has taken the most after his father, Tywin Lannister, Hand to King Aerys II for twenty-odd years. That's some baggage he can never discard. Regardless of how busy he is, though, Tyrion is the first to make time to be there for his brother's special day. In more ways than one, Jaime has saved his life.

Tyrion glances across the many attending guests to catch a glimpse of the red hair of Sansa Stark, who sits among all the Lords and Ladies of the North. Sansa has begun service as Warden of the North to her cousin the King, and the role suits her well. In the past year of working on their new kingdom, Tyrion has had more than one opportunity to engage her closely, and is beginning to appreciate very much the fine head on her shoulders. He wonders if he can get a moment with Lady Sansa alone in the reception later.

Sansa, unaware of Tyrion's glance, is likewise musing her own thoughts. She's thrilled that Brienne looks so beautiful and happy, but perhaps due to her own experiences, Sansa can never help but feel a little sombre on wedding days. As one of Brienne's closest female friends, Sansa has been chief in the effort to get Brienne to agree to wearing a gown, even though she had to compromise on having that - frankly ridiculous, thinks Sansa - sigil against the elegant folds. She watches, a little proudly, as Lord Selwyn Tarth lifts the blue and gold cloak from Brienne's shoulders, and Jaime places his own on her, signaling Brienne is now under the protection of House Lannister. While an outdated ritual, since Sansa is sure Brienne needs no man to protect her, she still tears a little. This is the wedding of little Sansa's dreams; how strange life is.

Sansa is missing a little her younger sister, Arya, who has been gallivanting about gods-know-where in Westeros and who might not have made it to the wedding. Unbeknownst to her, however, Arya and the hooded figure that is Jaqen H'ghar stand in the back row watching the same proceedings. Arya is grateful to the knights which have fought for Winterfell - and especially to Brienne, whose fate has been interwoven so much with the Starks' own - but she was surprised when Jaqen H'ghar wanted to come as well. It seems her teacher and companion has picked up some fondness for the one-handed knight during the Siege of Winterfell. Arya still does not know what for Jaqen H'ghar has come to find her, but he's offered to travel with her east of Essos and west of Westeros, and she has agreed. It is nice to travel with someone reliable. They are setting off first to Braavos, as Arya wants to pay respect to the home of Syrio Forel, her first swords master, before going beyond.

"And henceforth you are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever," the words of the septon ring clear across the quiet beach. The guests applauded politely as the groom and bride hold each other in their arms. As Jon, sitting next to Tyrion, joins in the polite applause, strangely the words of an oath taken long ago float back to him. _I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children_. It seems he is forever bound by this oath, even though he has left the Night's Watch years ago. Daenerys' eyes as he executed her with his own sword will forever haunt his dreams; he shall take no wife, and all of Westeros is his children. This is his watch, for this night and all nights to come.

All rise and begin to shuffle towards the castle of Casterly Rock, overlooking the Sunset Beach, as the ceremony ends and the feast begins. Jaime thought it was a nice gesture, for his father and ancestors, to have the wedding ceremony held here, even though neither he nor Brienne will live in Casterly Rock after. Brienne has taken service as the Head of the King's Guard, a role which Jaime thinks well befits her, while Jaime himself heads part of the King's Regiment. While Tyrion has offered repeatedly the title of Lord of Casterly Rock to him, Jaime has politely declined. Both he and Tyrion know which Lannister is best fit to run an estate, and besides, Jaime doesn't want to be a Lord of anything.

_Except my Lady's heart, _he thinks, chuckling, as Brienne catches his eyes and smiles. No, all he wanted to be is a knight. That he is and he shall continue to be.

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_And that's the grand conclusion! It's been my absolute pleasure to write this fic. Thank you all again for your generous and kind reviews, follows, and favorites. I hope you have enjoyed the story! ps. I know the Arya-Jaqen H'ghar thing is a little out of the blue, but I really liked Jaqen, and Gendrya not so much, so... Heh. Thank you all again!_


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